


better a sparrow than no birdsong at all

by persephonea



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt, Edging, Established Relationship, Gentle Sex, Jaskier Makes Geralt Sing For Once, M/M, Rimming, Top Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephonea/pseuds/persephonea
Summary: “The witchers aren’t very vocal folks, are they?”Jaskier’s voice cuts through the heavy musk, a steamed-glass reverie in the hour that comes after a body completely satiated. The room smells potent— the scent of wildflowers and sex, one sweeter than the other, and Jaskier’s breath, just a kiss short of Geralt’s mouth.“Hm?”--Or; Jaskier feels like Geralt isn't vocal in his pleasure and sets out to change that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 1223





	better a sparrow than no birdsong at all

**Author's Note:**

> oops, i did again. fell in love that is— this time with a sparrow and his wolf.

“The witchers aren’t very vocal folks, are they?”

Jaskier’s voice cuts through the heavy musk, a steamed-glass reverie in the hour that comes after a body completely satiated. The room smells potent— the scent of wildflowers and sex, one sweeter than the other, and Jaskier’s breath, just a kiss short of Geralt’s mouth.

“Hm?”

“Come on, White Wolf, you may not share but you’ve gotta throw me a bone here.” Jaskier laughs and the crow’s feet around his eyes deepen with familiar ease. Despite Jaskier’s careful efforts to create a self— fanciful and delicate, silk and perfumes, dangly things and ribbons, he will never not be a sunlit lea, nor garden lilacs nor orchard gooseberries. Cornflower blue. Geralt could find peace in them. He does.

“I talk plenty.” The hand settled in the dip of Jaskier’s hip squeezes the protruding bone.

Jaskier shakes his head, partly to disagree, partly to get the hair out of his smiling eyes. “A silver-tongued witcher, so flowery and grandiose, your eloquence competes with that of a bard, yes.” A wandering hand sneaks up Geralt’s side, warm fingertips moving with confidence. “No, I meant...” They stop to circle his nipple. “You are not very vocal in your  _ pleasure _ .” 

Jaskier pinches the nub between his thumb and forefinger and tugs. Geralt grunts. He grabs the bard’s wrist to still his ministrations.

“I prefer to listen. You are loud.”

“I adore it when you pay compliments to my voice.” 

The eyes follow him. Geralt’s face feels stiff, but the thawing comes more readily these days. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” Jaskier chirps and cranes his neck to nip at the edge of Geralt’s jaw.

Geralt feels the slow pulse pump warm blood through his veins, it tickles at the bottom of his stomach, almost uncomfortable with its giddiness. The corners of his mouth stretch, the feeling of an unfeeling witcher bursts out. 

“Always too big for your breeches,” he says, stirring in his chest relentless. 

“Oh, I think someone else holds that title.” Jaskier frees his hand from Geralt’s grip and wraps it around Geralt’s softened length, purposeful and unshamed.

Geralt laughs, easy and big, and Jaskier’s eyes shine.

“I could spin a song of a thousand verses about you.” Jaskier leans into Geralt’s touch, fingers brushing away hair that keeps disobeying.

“Corny too.” But Geralt’s voice is too fond, an aftertaste of a lingering smile.

Jaskier’s hand still works him, slow, too sure of himself. Geralt’s body feels heavy like a log, spent and drowsy, but not unmoved.

“Geralt?”

Geralt raises his brow in acknowledgment and catches Jaskier’s soft snort on his lips, in his mouth. The always-eager slide of Jaskier’s tongue is soothing, scorching.

“I want to hear you.” Jaskier presses his wish right in the midst of Geralt’s hungry growl.

“I’m afraid I can’t sing like you.”

“Let me teach you then.” 

And Geralt could never deny his bard a thing, Jaskier’s written into his heart and it’s stronger than destiny, stronger than fate.

He sinks into the sheets, sprawls his body inviting Jaskier to take anything he wants from him. His stomach has a sharp-clawed monster living inside that scratches around the walls and squirms, the beat picks up and he feels weak for it. 

Jaskier’s eyes glint somewhat dauntless, like when he strums the strings of his lute, like when he first sighed his love into Geralt’s mouth, like when he didn’t let him leave that day in the mountains. 

Jaskier was always braver than people gave him credit for, because what other people considered Geralt’s bravery was mere survival, and what they talked about as the curse of the witchers was cowardice, because Jaskier always sang his heart out, wore it on the tip of his tongue, and he didn’t let Geralt leave.

“I’m here.” Here they are. And someone wants him. The years are painted into the thin lines in Jaskier’s face, he glows and lives and always finds his way back to the witcher’s side.

“Here you are.” Jaskier kisses the corner of his mouth before sliding down the length of his body, still warm. The glass panes still hide the outside world behind a milky film, but the trails of sweat on his temples have dried out.

Jaskier rests his cheek on Geralt’s thigh, sweet breath deliciously close to where Geralt feels the heat quickly gather again.

Bright eyes, a focal point, a witcher bewitched. 

Jaskier licks his lips, seemingly unperturbed. “Whatever will I do to you?”

“You don’t have a plan?” Geralt smirks, only to see Jaskier narrow those blue, blue eyes, a summer storm rolling in.

“I compose best when I can try things out.” The muscle in Geralt’s thigh twitches as fingers map its smooth inside. “Taste the words in my mouth, and decide then.” A tongue swipes over the head of Geralt’s hardening cock, leaves him wet and wanting.

“I’m not a fucking song,” Geralt grunts, all of his instincts beckoning him to grab Jaskier by his silky hair, roll them around and slide into his welcoming body that would fall apart in his arms.

“Yet you are in all of mine.” 

And Geralt knows this to be true. He may not appreciate the plenteous finery in Jaskier’s songs, but when the bard meets his gaze across a crowded room, following the red string tying them together, he recognizes the heart flying out of the nest of Jaskier’s throat.

And it lands in his hands. And here they are.

Geralt throws his head back, fists the already crumpled sheets, breathes out loud through his nose. They say,  _ better a sparrow than no birdsong at all _ , but they don’t know,  _ they don’t know _ . A wolf doesn’t bare his fangs— for his sparrow, he bares his throat.

The sickeningly sweet scent of magnolia wafts through the space, one of Jaskier’s favorite fragrances, which Geralt wouldn’t care for if not for its practical use.

“You’re not unknowable, darling. I will make you sing.” 

A flash of teeth and a warm press of fingers to a tight ring of muscle, and Geralt’s eyes snap open, watching the candlelight break on the straight line of Jaskier’s profile.

And it isn’t the first time that someone has touched him there, it isn’t the first time Jaskier did, but Geralt loves when Jaskier puts his clever hands on him and he especially loves when they touch him  _ there _ .

He arches into the touch, soles burrowing into the soft mattress to give himself some steady footing, legs falling open for his sparrow to nestle between them.

Jaskier works slowly, the movement of his fingers reminding Geralt of the loving picking across strings to coax a melody out, and he is being played, he knows, and he’s starved for it. 

“Am I treading the right path?” Jaskier’s eyes don’t leave Geralt’s face, and he is pinned down by the naked insistence in that gaze, chest collapsing on itself, so tight.

“Not treading. Trudging.” Geralt pushes out as he bucks up, trying to swallow Jaskier’s gentle finger to feed the hunger rising inside.

Jaskier laughs rich and dulcet, not his practiced, silver kind. “Patience, darling. Good things come to those who wait. In this case, me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts, but the word doesn’t end on its usual warning note. It’s choked back, the last syllable stuck in his throat as the finger slips inside, warm and slick.

“You were saying?” 

The lilting, teasing edge to his voice is enough to make Geralt want to reach for Jaskier’s hair and pull roughly, but he doesn’t— because Jaskier wanted to prove a point, because Geralt could never deny his bard a thing, because Geralt  _ likes  _ when Jaskier gets like this.

And the fingers slide in and out, one, two, three, but they are careful not to brush against the place where Geralt craves him, where he needs him. Because he does, he does need him, Destiny and her roads be damned, he isn’t looking to please her, he’s figuring out what pleases  _ him _ .

Jaskier stretches him, unmerciful, and Geralt is panting, he’s catching his breath, he feels so empty, and open and waiting. The fingers catch on the rim on their way out and it reverberates through him, a quiver of a wave, he feels it in the pit of his stomach, he feels it in his toes. 

He opens the eyes he didn’t realize he closed, focused too entirely on the sensation, the  _ squelching _ , and the fucking magnolia that almost overpowers Jaskier’s soft unintrusive scent lingering close to his skin.

Geralt looks down to where Jaskier rests between his splayed thighs. His pupils are blown black, the thin blue circle lending them glow, cheeks rosy pink, his shoulders sunburned, and he looks like something Geralt could devour, in one bite or savor the taste. 

And then, he sees the fingers, sliding in and out of him, and for once Jaskier turns his gaze as he pushes the fourth one in, and he  _ still  _ doesn’t press hard enough. Geralt’s breaths are coming in harsher, and he feels empty and open, and he just wants something to give way and crack along the seam that holds him together.

He grunts and shifts. The will of a witcher stumbles and Jaskier’s fingers finally slip deep enough to mark him and he’s his. He sighs in relief until he hears Jaskier laugh again, with the sweat gathered in the dimple of his collarbone, with his gaze blackened, sounding so pleased with himself, sounding so delicious, and he looks like something Geralt could  _ devour _ . 

Jaskier’s looking at him like Geralt surprised him, but doesn’t he know, doesn’t he know— it rises in Geralt like a horned beast, nostrils trembling with heavy huffs, a monster on his tail, longing to be tamed.

“Oh, love,” Jaskier says, like he sees him, sees the ugly desperate part of him clawing to the surface and doesn’t shy away, doesn’t look away, takes him as he is.

Jaskier doesn’t withdraw his fingers as Geralt expected. Instead, he punishes him in a way much truer to the bard himself. He rises on his knees over Geralt’s body, one hand splayed over the crease of his hip bone, the other deep inside him. And he is  _ still  _ pressing in, and Geralt’s drowning in a steady rush of undiluted  _ pleasure _ because Jaskier won’t move, won’t give him anything besides the insistent pressure.

“See, I’ve still got nothing from you.” Jaskier drags his hand over and down Geralt’s clenching stomach, the muscles jumping under his palm unprompted. He stops half an inch from his cock and Jaskier raises one brow, looking pointedly at how Geralt twitches under his gaze. He’s so hard it  _ hurts  _ and he didn’t even pay attention to that particular concern before, he’s been too distracted by the sweet fingers and Jaskier’s dark eyes and the fucking magnolia— 

He growls, low and deep in his throat. It starts as a thread unraveling and finishes like an animal staking its claim.

“That’s better, but still not what I’m going for.” Jaskier grins, a thin sheen of sweat over his shoulders and his own cock hanging full and red between his legs. “I said I would teach you, right? Watch closely.”

And he won’t touch him, leaves him leaking onto his stomach in a desperate agony, but Jaskier molds himself against Geralt’s body, lips resting over Geralt’s brow, chastely, comfortingly, as he opens him up, curls his fingers and finally, finally, caresses him, fucks him with his fingers— 

And Geralt’s stretched on four of them and two are stroking the quivering gland maddeningly, unceasingly— 

It’s still agony, but it’s also Geralt at the mercy of Jaskier’s hands, and he doesn’t have to hide or lock down the terror inside him because Jaskier can take it, and Jaskier pushes and pushes and Geralt wants to let him break him, he wants to fall apart on his hands because Jaskier always puts him back together, and— 

He stops. 

Geralt could cry out at the harsh loss he feels, still stretched, still empty, while Jaskier kisses the sharp edge of his cheek so gently, and he turns his head to meet Jaskier’s eyes already on him, always on him, “Jaskier—”

But he never gets to say his name like he intends to, a question, a threat, a promise— it’s swallowed again, this time with a loud groan, one that comes from him, that swallows his words right up as Jaskier’s attention returns— 

He’s drowning again, so close to the surface but the water keeps filling his lungs, filling them to the brink, he’s almost too full, there’s nowhere to go but up, and then— 

Jaskier stops again. Geralt wants to tell him, “Stop fucking around,” and maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, he doesn’t know because he’s falling and then he’s rising again, and he’s falling and he’s rising and his whole world is narrowed down to Jaskier, as it always comes down to him. 

So he gets lost in it.

His body feels like it’s under the attack of a curse, fire and ice, acid and balm, he might be shaking, gods, he might be begging, he doesn’t know— 

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice calls out to him, asking him to look, black-blue eyes and rosy cheeks, “Sing, my love.” 

And Geralt does, he moans, deep from his chest, as Jaskier’s hand finally wraps around his aching cock— 

Only to squeeze the base and keep him from spilling, because the witcher’s will is iron, but he’s met his match, and Jaskier takes his slow-beating heart and makes it flutter like a treacherous hummingbird. He’s not easily satisfied, but he’s easy,  _ so easy _ .

Jaskier’s lips glide over his cheek, find his mouth and he drinks Geralt in, wet and deep, like he’s the one drowning, trying to steal the breath from him. And Geralt feels so, and so much,

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Jaskier begs, and shouldn’t be Geralt the one asking,

But he can’t, not when his mouth’s parted, and “The sounds you make, don’t stop,”

He can’t, wouldn’t, it feels so good, so everything and everywhere, Jaskier’s firm grip, Jaskier’s fingers, his mouth, and then— 

“Do you—” Jaskier gasps, “do you want me?” 

Lips move over Geralt’s, swollen, spit-slick soft, and Geralt doesn’t understand the question, he’s watching the mouth move while his exhales turn to groans, but he can’t make the words connect together. 

Jaskier then does the unthinkable— he takes out his fingers. 

Geralt is left gaping, bearing down on nothing, and the cry that pushes out of his chest is interim for a moment of clarity. He realizes what Jaskier is asking, and the answer is— 

He grabs Jaskier’s cock, at a loss for words, and without any ceremony he guides him between his legs. Jaskier’s body fits there like the hollow was shaped after him, like it remembers him. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jaskier has the audacity to laugh, to  _ laugh  _ while Geralt’s so empty and wanting and ready to be filled. He brackets Geralt’s face with his arms, and then— 

He’s pushing in, the hot slide of his cock, thick and so right. Geralt’s mouth hangs open, it just might be permanently stuck like that at this point, and someone’s being very generous with their grunts and moans, and that someone might be him, and there’s also— 

“You’re a song, Geralt,” and “Don’t stop,” and “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” right in his ear, and the scent of Jaskier all around him, and then, the fucking gets so good, it’s hard to focus, his heightened senses coming to a blur.

And also— 

_ “Jaskier, Jaskier, fuck, Jaskier,” _

Jaskier drops his head to the crook of Geralt’s neck, he mouths on the skin there and bites down, and the pace picks up, he’s driving in with purpose. Jaskier’s body sags, he’s closer to Geralt and the weight of him leans on Geralt’s forgotten cock, traps it with the soft dip of his belly, and the added friction, finally, does the trick.

Their bodies sticking together makes the glide easier, and Jaskier doesn’t stop talking until he does— he rises on his elbows enough to press his forehead against Geralt’s, trembling hands cup Geralt’s face, and “Touch me, please.”

Geralt’s white-knuckled hands release their grip on the sheets and he wraps them around Jaskier, the line of his spine his saving grace.

Jaskier captures Geralt’s lips in a half-kiss, slotting their mouths together, and it’s messy, but so good. Geralt feels the heat build and build, the hook in his stomach pulling him in tighter, Jaskier thrusts are getting deeper, more frantic, he’s buried in to the hilt.

And then— 

He’s shaking in Geralt’s arms, his weight rests heavy on top of him.

The loud growl Geralt lets out is brutish in its urgency, because he feels Jaskier fill him warmly, and yet he still hurts, and “Fuck, fuck, Jaskier.”

Geralt’s hand sweeps away Jaskier’s sweaty bangs to see his glazed-over eyes. He thumbs at his cheekbone, breathes out loud, his warm breath curling into Jaskier’s open mouth.

His sparrow flutters his lashes, wings testing the strength of the wind, and he smiles. Sweetly, like the first morning light. Geralt narrows his eyes.

“Need a hand?” Jaskier asks, his smile only growing wider.

Geralt almost pushes him off.

“Jaskier,” he says, and now his voice finally gets that tilting threat right, but it’s strained, missing the desired effect. 

It never works, anyway.

He still aches, tightening around Jaskier’s softening cock, his own heavy and full, a smidge from a blow.

“Oh,  _ yes _ , say my name more, I liked it.” The damned bard presses a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s nose and Geralt swears he’s never wanted to bend him over a knee more, and not stop until his ass is the shade of Jaskier’s favorite carmine red doublet.

And then— 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says and his soft eyes hold him there, and Geralt’s too-slow heart still beats strong, and he could never deny his bard a thing.

Jaskier braces his hands on Geralt’s chest and slowly pulls out with a wince. Geralt feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, a curse, certainly. Then Jaskier’s sliding down the witcher’s body and he’s lifting up Geralt’s thighs, spreading him open— 

Jaskier’s thumb circles the tender rim and presses in, pushing his own spend back into Geralt, and Geralt can’t help but grab a fistful of Jaskier’s hair because he needs something to hold onto, because he sees that glint in his eyes again, and he knows it means his bard has an idea.

“What are you thinking?” He asks and his voice sounds like sand tastes, rough and gravelly.

Tilting his head into the touch, Jaskier licks his lips and sighs, a touch dramatic. “I’m thinking, I’d like to see this through.”

A wink, then, and Jaskier’s bending down, his back caught in a delicious arch, and his mouth is kissing along the edge of the pucker. Jaskier’s tongue replaces his thumb, and all Geralt can think is  _ Jaskier _ , and  _ I don’t deserve him _ , and  _ I don’t want him to leave. _

“Please,” Geralt begs,  _ begs _ , and he tugs on Jaskier’s hair, a bit rougher than he intended, but he thinks Jaskier understands.

He moves his hand from where it’s gripping Geralt’s thigh, and  _ finally _ , finally wraps it around his leaking, ruddy cock.

Then Jaskier’s tongue is diving in deeper, and he  _ moans  _ as he’s tasting  _ himself in Geralt _ , and that’s what does it— not the hand that strokes over the sensitive head, but Jaskier, always Jaskier, giving and taking all of Geralt, and still wanting more. 

It rolls over him like a blow, a punch to his gut that shakes with his whole body. It takes his breath away and only leaves Jaskier’s name on his lips, cried out into the warm atmosphere of the room, of two bodies intertwined. He spills over Jaskier’s hand and onto his belly.

“Did you just— ” Jaskier doesn’t mask the surprise in his voice. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Geralt didn’t know, either. He was still learning, even with the years already written in and over his scars. It was Jaskier, always Jaskier.

He grunts in affirmation.

“Well, that was… definitely something.” Jaskier sits up on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Geralt’s heart jumps again, caught hook, line and sinker— the vision of him in his post-haze glow, hair mussed, lips red and shiny, and “To explore later?”

Geralt tugs at Jaskier again in lieu of an answer, has him climb back up his body and fit in the cradle of his arms, and when he kisses him, he can taste the salty aftertaste on his tongue, in the back of his throat. The room smells like wildflowers and sex, and that’s the closest he’s ever come to the definition of peace.

“Good enough for you?” Geralt asks after Jaskier’s lips settle over his pulse point and one of his legs hooks over Geralt’s hip.

Jaskier’s response tickles on his skin. “You were a song, darling.”

Geralt snorts at that. “You’d be the first one to call me that.” 

The first one to be  _ allowed  _ to call him that, but that goes unsaid.

“I’m a pioneer in my field. You don’t know what you have on your hands, wolf.”

“Oh, I think I have an idea.”

Jaskier smiles against Geralt’s neck, a shadow of teeth grazing the flesh there.

Destiny and her roads be damned, Geralt hears Yennefer’s voice back at the mountain, the dry wind stealing the words out of her mouth—  _ You may have bound our fates but you’re someone else’s destiny—  _

His sparrow, with a heart that always lands in Geralt’s tired hands.

He wants to tell him, but words were always a battle for White Wolf, one he could not prepare for and  _ that  _ almost always meant certain death.

But Jaskier, as always, is already one step ahead of him, hands roaming the planes of Geralt’s chest, not ceasing, a tell that he’s trying to keep something down or work out how to let it out.

“I was thinking—” Jaskier starts. It seems like he’s fighting the same battle, for once, where words are hits he keeps missing and each one brings him closer to a defeat. Geralt puts his hand over Jaskier’s and traps it against his heart.

Jaskier breathes out, softly. 

“I know you and Destiny are not on good terms but I wanted you to know that I meant it.”

“Meant what?” 

The hand over his chest feels tight. He knows that this is something Jaskier carried with him for a long time and the weight of it is true and tried.

“When I first met you, I knew. You smelled of destiny, Geralt of Rivia. And I— I think it was mine.”

Jaskier’s fingers in his twitch. He shrugs his shoulder, as if to lighten the load, true and tried, and Geralt finds it hard to breathe,  _ you are someone else’s destiny _ —

And he knows, he  _ knew _ , the bard who kept following him was the one person Geralt didn’t want to leave, and isn’t that a good laugh at his expense, that the road Geralt was walking down was the one he was supposed to find all along because it led him  _ here _ .

And here they are.

He needs someone who wants him and for once, maybe Geralt should be the one to wear his heart on the tip of his tongue.

He squeezes Jaskier’s hand and hopes he will understand. A rumble in his chest, trying to find the words, always just out of reach. 

“Remember when—” He feels Jaskier’s eyes on him, again and always. “Back then when I told you that I wanted nothing but peace?” 

Jaskier blinks as Geralt turns to look at him. Cornflower blue, just as bright, a sunlit lea. His voice can’t waver.

“Now I’ve found it, because you are  _ mine _ .”

A sharp inhale, and then, “Alright.”

And Geralt can breathe again, and he’s someone’s destiny, and he wants nothing but to wake up next to Jaskier for as long as the road continues.

“One would think it comical. After all your bitching about my being a pest on your existence, to think that I would be the one to bring you peace.”

Geralt laughs, he can’t help it, he’s bursting with it and it’s Jaskier,  _ always Jaskier _ , pressing his own smile into Geralt’s open mouth, and he thinks, a sparrow’s birdsong is worth more than any other. 

**Author's Note:**

> please come yell at me on twitter [@beethkay](https://twitter.com/beethkay) and tumblr [@rvsvlka](https://rvsvlka.tumblr.com/)  
> i'd love to meet some fellow geraskier connoisseurs
> 
> as always, thank you to @beepgrandchero for being my lovely beta
> 
> also a shoutout to my brother bc of his justified "i've been trying to get you to read these books for years and now you finally see the light bc of the gay??" distress. i'm sorry i haven't become wise sooner and missed out on the gay.


End file.
